


Fitzsimmons Drabbles Collection

by Florchis



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Babysitting, F/M, FS as Mondler, First Dance, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Mackelena baby, Making Out, Relationship(s), S1, Sex in a Car, Tumblr Prompts, Tumblr: fitzsimmons-week, demiromantic Jemma Simmons, prompts, s4, s5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8843422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florchis/pseuds/Florchis
Summary: Here I will be posting any Fitzsimmons story not long enough to be posted on its own.Newer one: "May i have this dance" (High school AU)





	1. “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage” (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set between S1 and S2.
> 
> (As usual, Jemma's feels/oppinions don't necessary reflect my view on things or the view of other characters on things.)

The silence stretches between them, and Jemma tries her best to not take it to heart, because Fitz is having trouble finding his words and, well, as a matter of act, so is she.

(Fitz has a brain injury to blame, what does she have to blame? Probably an _emotional_ injury of some kind. She doesn’t want to talk about it.

...Isn’t that exactly the problem?)

They are dancing awkwardly around each other,  trying to find their footing on this new lab, on this new lives, on this new everything. Fitz is spreading himself too thin trying to be self-sufficient, and Jemma lets him. She lets him because he needs the reassurance, and she lets him because she doesn’t know how to do better. They both need time to heal, and Jemma hasn’t been the best at patience during her vertiginous life, but she can learn. For him, she can learn.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t makes her nervous, though. She hears the clatter of every tool he drops like it’s happening inside her own head. She is over-conscious of exactly where he is and exactly what he is doing at any given moment, and she can’t focus on her own work because she is putting too much energy into his.

He curses under his breath when his trembling hands drop the gazillionth tool, and she has to turn around to look at him, she just _has_ to, because he just said a four-words sentence without stuttering once. He is glaring at the fallen miniature screwdriver, and, because he is been avoiding her eyes even since the Pod, just for one second she wishes he would look at her with that intensity, even if not with that sentiment.

She clears her throat. He turns his head to look at her so quickly he must has had whiplash. They look at each other for a couple of terrible seconds, and really, this was an awful _awful_ instinct on her part. She is so desperate to break the tension she blurts out the first thing her mouth can articulate without thinking it through.

“Your hand. It’s bothering you. Do you- well, I mean. I could give you a massage. A therapeutical one, of course.”

He looks at her like she had grown a second head and she feels all the blood in her body migrating to her cheeks.

“Umm. No. Thank you, S-Simmons. But. No.” And he turns around and he is gone before she can even find her voice.

Jemma stands there for a long time, with her eyes burning, her head down, looking at the screwdriver that’s still on the floor. She has thought about it before, about how he’d be better without her here, and all the time and the space he could need to heal, but it never had hurt like this, the distance so big and his rejection so harsh. She has thought about leaving before, but maybe Jemma Simmons is no good with patience after all, and she needs to keep up with the rhythm of her vertiginous life and move on from thought to action.


	2. FS watch over the Mackelena kid (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hemnalini preguntó: Hi!!! FS + "Mondays are your diaper days" please? :) // Fitzsimmons watching the Mackelena baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually don’t write them with kids. My Jemma refuses to get/stay pregnant, and though I can see them adopting, I think it would be an older kid, not a baby. So, have a little nothing of Fitzsimmons watching Mackelena’s kid. “Espe” is short for Esperanza, that’s spanish for hope, and a very pretty name.

“Jemma! Jemma, I need your help here.”

Jemma rolls her eyes while she dries her hands. She _swears to God_ , she can’t leave him alone for thirty seconds…

“What, Fitz?”

His head, and only his head, juts out from the doorframe, and that combined with his eyes big as saucers make him look so comical that Jemma could laugh, if she weren’t so engaged on glaring at him.

“Espe needs you.” He waits a beat, then two, and when Jemma doesn’t answer or move, one of his hands shows up to touch his ear sheepishly. “Mondays are your diapers days, you know.”

Jemma directs towards him a look so nasty that it could sour milk. _Unbelievable, Leopold Fitz. Unbelievable._

“We _only_ watch Espe on mondays, Fitz.”

“Yeah, well.” And at least he has the _decency_ to look ashamed. “You don’t want to have to clean me up too, do you?” He is trying to be playful, but Jemma is having none of it. “Ah, well, whatever.” But despite his words, he doesn’t make a move to go take care of the problem himself.

Jemma sighs.

“Fine.” She stacks the plates she was washing on a shelf and unties her apron. She wants to look stern, but she can’t act all offended after seeing Fitz’s little blush: domesticity _really_ does it for him. “But you are helping, because _starting next time_ we are taking turns.”

“Yes, sir.”

She swats him on the shoulder, and he leans down to give her a kiss, and Jemma lets herself be kissed. She knows that next time they will play this game all over again, but besides trying to make him more acquainted with everyday tasks, she doesn’t actually mind. Espe is a sweetheart, and they are giving Mack and Elena much deserved weekly dates, and, as long as she gets to do it _with_ Fitz, she can tackle any duty with a smile on her face **.**


	3. Friends with benefits(G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fitzsimmons + "I’d like it if you stayed." Friends-with-benefits sort of thing.

She knows this routine as well as the one she uses in the lab.

She gets up from the bed and puts on the shirt he discarded on the floor before falling entangled with hers the previous night. She doesn’t get dressed with her own clothes until the very last minute; while she is here, she likes to be surrounded by him, by his smell, by the touch of the fabrics she has felt over his chest a thousand times. It’s not about him, it’s not about teasing him or turning him on (he rarely wakes up while she is on the go; not that she has said no to a second or third round the few times it had happened); it’s all about her. Wearing his clothes while on his house makes her feel sexy and safe and loved.

(Not that she will ever say that to him; she is not allowed to feel things like that, and she won’t risk their friendship or this agreement by stepping over the unspoken lines. She is smarter than that.)

She tidies a little, not too much to make the place look unlike him, but enough to make a difference, to make her presence known and remembered. She is not trying to brand him, not permanently, but she likes the taste it leaves on her mouth; she can even pretend that she is doing it because they are friends, and friends do nice things for each other.

(They do, of course. But maybe they don’t undo the knot of the other’s tie to let it hanging on their dresser, making it somehow an erotic reminder of a passionate night.)

She makes a fresh pot of tea, and takes a sweetened cup- the only glucose she will have on her system till noon-, while debating whether to take a shower or not. She goes over it every time, and every time she decides against it; she is not shaking the reminder of him from her skin like a dirty secret, and showering while still on his house would feel like she is trying to let everything behind closed doors.

(She doesn’t want to do it, but she is kind of doing it anyway.)

And then she cleans her mug, takes off his shirt- she leaves it in the hamper; a little because it does need a wash, a lot because it’s almost hers now, and she can’t bear the idea of him using it for anything else, or with anyone else-, and puts on her own clothes, kisses him lightly on the cheek, leaves. It’s a well-oiled ritual that she can do while still half-asleep, that helps her go into her outside-life being centered, that helps her appreciate everything this is and not mourn for what it isn’t,

(She isn’t sad, per se, for what she wants and they don’t have, she just wonders sometimes; a bright mind like hers also means an overactive imagination. She wonders and daydreams and sometimes she is even close to act on it when they are not on his apartment, on plain daylight, being the good friends they have always been. She restrains herself, but barely, and she knows that the day will come when she won’t be able to, and it will come soon. She can’t worry about it beforehand.)

But this time she is about to kiss him goodbye when she realises that he is awake. 

It’s different that other times, because he either doesn’t wake up or he wakes up while she is still wearing his shirt; never when she is already ready to go, the previous night left behind her like a second skin that she had to let go in order to keep going.

It’s different because Fitz usually lets her know when he is awake, and this time he is so quiet that she can only assume he has been watching her for a long time.

It’s different because they don’t have interludes like this one: they either stumble into his room in a whirlwind of lust or they are the best friends who never touch each other more than strictly necessary. They do closeness and vulnerability when they pose as friends; they do passion and intensity when they pose as lovers; but they don’t do domesticity and they don’t do romantic gestures, and the way he is looking at her from his bed, with a tenderness that melts her heart, throws her out of balance.

(Have they been feeling the same way for as long as they have been doing this, and they just failed to communicate it to each other, both of them too afraid to loose what they have to ask for more? How can two people so smart act so dumb about such important things?)

“I’d like it if you stayed.” His voice is rough with sleep, and its tone alone makes Jemma’s knees weak. He is serious, and there is nothing on his voice that shows his usual insecurities or self-consciousness; he is all emotion, but also pure certainty.

Her lips tremble so hard that she feels like she can’t find her own voice.

“Ye-yeah?”

He doesn’t move to make more space for her, doesn’t pat the empty side of his bed, but something on his face is the equivalent of an invitation.

“Yeah.”

Jemma stays.


	4. Neighbours AU (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your stray red item turned my whites pink.” // Neighbours AU

Leopold Fitz is _this_ close to not open the door to the love of his life.

For the record, he can not be exactly blamed for not opening the door to a stranger at 3 a.m.

(Off the record, he has installed an out-of-regulations micro-camera on the outer side of his door, so he can check on moments exactly like this one, and not open it to the man who complains about his tinkering at ungodly hours- both the complaints and the tinkering happen at ungodly hours, if he is being honest. And this night, when he goes to check on it, he sees the face of the cute second-floor neighbour, and, well, maybe he is too dense to talk to her on his own, but he is not about to let her hanging at his door. He was raised as a gentleman, after all, even if he pretends he wasn’t.)

“What?” He opens with a scowl, anyway, because let’s not fool her into thinking that he is a pleasant person.

But he is not deterred by his ill-will, and using the laundry basket she is carrying, pushes him out of the way until she gets inside and then tosses the basket at his feet. Fitz looks down and, oh, is that his _Trust me, I’m an engineer_ red t-shirt that has gone missing? She takes it from the pile revealing a bunch of pink clothes below, and throws it at his chest.

“What is wrong with you?!”

“Your stray t-shirt turned all my whites pink.” Her cold stare is actually pretty intimidating, no matter how pretty she is, and Fitz’s defenses flare up and he shows her his teeth. “Including all my shirts that I need for a job interview tomorrow.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t do your laundry the night before an interview! Or, may I said, the _exact same morning!”_ He is not exactly angry, he just feels a little outraged, how dare she blame him for something that is clearly a product of her negligence? (Fitz would know, he is a world expert in procrastination.)

She blushes, and _yeah, Fitz, show her!_

“I was busy with… other things.” She doesn’t offer more details, and he doesn’t ask, because he is supposed to be the Grumpy Neighbour, and the Grumpy Neighbour isn’t supposed to care. Even while she mutters under her breath something that sounds like _You know you suck at improvisation, Jemma, come on!_ She recovers quickly, though, and glares at him, with her hands on her hips. “Well, anyway, what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you!”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend that can lend you one?”

Simmons (he knows her name, _of course_ he knows her name, but he is careful to not make it noticeable) scowls at him.

“Of course I have. But I can’t not bother them at 3 bloody a.m. They are not guilty of ruining my entire life: _you_ are.”

Melodramatic, much? He excuses himself thinking that the only reason why he doesn’t close the door on her face is because she is already inside his flat: the easiest way to make her leave is to make amends.

“What’s wrong with wearing a pink shirt?”

“One: they are not dyed evenly. Two: it would clash with my entire outfit. Three: Clearly you have never been a woman in a job interview, have you?”

“Can’t say I have, no.”

“Wearing something pink can turn it into a nightmare _this_ fast.”

Fitz gapes at her, because there are things that rank higher on his list than going down on records as the Grumpy Neighbour, and being outraged at other people’s idiocy is one of them.

“You gotta be joking.”

“Don’t even get me started.”

They look at each other for a couple seconds, until Fitz finally sighs.

“Maybe you can borrow one of mine?”

She looks at him wh her head inclined, like she’s considering his measurements and his body built, and Fitz can actually feel the blush creeping up all the way to the tips of his ears.

“That will have to do,” she says at last, with a long suffering sigh, and Fitz answers with a mock curtsey and shows her to his room.

* * *

"You will have to make it up to me in other ways, I hope you know that.”

“Whaaaaat?? Waking me up at three a.m. is not punishment enough?”

 _“Please,_ like you were asleep. The entire building knows you get your better ideas between midnight and dawn, Fitz.”

“... how do you even know my name?”

“I-I, I mean, I’m  only a good neighbour, of course I know everybody’s name, just because you suck at it, it doesn’t mean that-”

“How did you know it was my t-shirt, eh? Was this some kind of elaborate plan to set me up, Simmons?”

“... you know my name too.”

“Bugger off, we are talking about your creepy tendencies, not mine!”

_“Ugh, Fitz.”_


	5. Pre- Fitz's rescue (4x21) (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons-centric before Fitz's rescue (pre 4x21)

Jemma has never been more disappointed in her entire life, and she is counting that time she gave everything she had in order to leave that hellish planet, and the plan failed because of a avoidable miscalculation. But nothing can compare to the moment when she and Daisy reunite with their team and only May and Coulson come out. She was prepared for Mack’s absence- Daisy already told her about his decision to stay in The Framework-, but nothing, _ever,_ could have prepared her for Fitz’s absence.

She crumbles to the floor before Daisy can catch her, and she is sobbing uncontrollably, because she needs to have a minute alone with her feelings without knowing what happened; she can allow herself a moment of weakness, a moment of mourning because once again she had him just an inch away from her grasp, and something pulled them apart.

Daisy is kneeling beside her, but she doesn’t even have time to hug her before Simmons is getting back to her feet. She hears May’s laconic re-telling of the recent occurrences with dry cheeks, and doesn’t even look at Coulson while he looks at her with a mix of pity and shame. She doesn’t have time for sensibilities now: she has to get Fitz back first.

* * *

May is looking at her with careful intent while she triangulates coordinates, before she decides it’s time to speak.

“Jemma, you are too weak for this mission.”

“No, I’m not. And even if I were, I’m my own doctor, and I take full responsibility for the possible consequences of my actions.” She is clenching her teeth, but she is not looking at her, and May almost feels like smiling. “But I can’t say the same about you, agent May.”

“This is my job, Simmons, but not yours.”

“That doesn’t mean I will stay behind.”

“Fine.”

That gets a reaction out of her, even if it’s just disbelief.

“Just _fine?_ You are letting me off the hook that easily?”

“Yes, just fine. You are a grown-up woman, and I respect your need to do this yourself.” May makes a pause, and Jemma re-directs her attention back to the screen. “But I don’t want you to get hurt, so you need to be prepared and we all need to be alert. We don’t know what kind of weird superpowers AIDA has now beside teleportation.”

Her factions harden, and May looks at her very carefully, because determination is useful, but stupidity is not.

“Weird superpowers or not, she is human now. And humans can bleed.”

“Do you want that? To make her suffer?” She is not being judgemental, but someone needs to ask her these questions before it’s too late.

“Yes. No.” A pause. “I don’t know.” She looks pained and angry, and May doesn’t know if she would appreciate being touched right now, so she gets closer but doesn’t touch her.

“Jemma, I’m not judging you. I would have shoot her at point blank, and the only regret I have is that I couldn’t do it. But you need to go in knowing what you are willing to do.”

Simmons nods, and her lips are trembling, and May knows that the only one that could make her feel better right now is Fitz, so she lets her alone.

* * *

Her heart rate sky-rockets at the sound of his voice, but Jemma doesn’t analyze if it is because it is _his_ voice, because of nerves or because of a triggering reaction. She doesn’t have time for that.

She feels chills running all over her body when she hears him talking to AIDA/Ophelia/Whatever, until she realizes that his answers are long enough to keep her talking but elusive enough to get the conversation nowhere. Smart man, he knows the longer they stay in the same place, the higher the chances are of them finding him.

May raises three fingers, and she acknowledges the countdown with a nod while Daisy makes a signal to Piper’s team. When she has fold all her fingers, May kicks the door open, and they all rush in. Maybe not for AIDA, but this is only a beginning for them, and Jemma will make sure of that.   


	6. Playing with hair (G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Form a tumblr prompt: Fitzsimmons + playing with hair.

If she is being honest, is not the first time- not even the second or third time- that she wakes up on Fitz’s dorm couch with a blanket snuck tight under her body. She can almost hear her mother’s scolding voice and the reminder that she always hear from afar during Fitz’s conversations with his mother: _All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy._ (It’s okay, their mothers just don’t understand that _work is fun_ for them, and also that doing it together makes it much much more enjoyable.)

But it is the first time that she wakes up with a braid that she has no recollection of doing before falling asleep, and of all the out-there things that could have happened while she was sleeping in this place full of over-worked, over-caffeinated, under-rested scientists, that isn’t serious, but quite… odd.

“Fitz?” She knows he is up already, because he was awakened by the smell of fresh tea, after all. “Why do I have a braid in my hair?”

The next thing she hears is the noise of something crashing against the floor and Fitz’s muttered swearing. She can’t help snickering, but she’s careful of hiding it when his face appears from the other side of the small wall that works as division between the tiny kitchen and his sitting room area.

“So, um, I was feeling a little restless while we were going over the last subject, so you offered to let me play with your hair? And I, um, I took it to heart, apparently.”

He is blushing, scratching at his neck like he always does when he is nervous. Jemma hums and gets up to look at herself in the small mirror she made him hang up over the couch _(It makes the room look so much bigger, Fitz, don’t be so obtuse!)_. Even after a whole night of sleep, the french braid looks tidy and well-crafted; she doesn’t know why she feels so surprised when she is familiar with his very delicate work in the lab.

“This is great, Fitz! I’m definitely asking you to do this again when I’m too stressed to do it myself.” She doesn’t disclose the information that she doesn’t know how to make one, because she is not voluntarily giving him ammunition to tease her about her  _I excel at everything_ facade.

“You don’t think that, um, don’t you think that it is weird?”

“Why would it be weird that I let you touch my hair?” She stands next to him, and takes the end of the braid to tickle his upper arm until he wiggles away. “I think we are past that, Fitz.”

He is crossing his arms over his chest, and the piyamas and the defensive stance are making him look even younger.

“No. I mean that I _know_ how to do one. Isn’t that weird?”

Jemma pursues her lips. She knows a whole lot about Fitz, and there are a lot of things she doesn’t know, but that she suspects based on reading in-between lines and on off-hand comments that he makes here or there. She has noticed that he can do things that are traditionally considered feminine as happily as she does them, as long as nobody puts him on the spot about them. So, even though she _is_ dying to know why he does know how to braid hair, she makes a dismissive gesture with her hand.

“Nah. Knowledge is knowledge, Fitz. We shouldn’t disregard any of it. No matter how unlikely it might seem now, everything could be useful in the future.”

He livens up at that, and Jemma imaginary fist-bumpes herself.

“You are right, Simmons. Breakfast?”

She strokes her smooth braid one more time, but lets him drop the subject.

“I thought you would never ask.”


	7. (Failed) Car sex (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr prompt: “Car sex looks so much more easier in the movies.”
> 
> Warnings for some light innuendo

“Stop. Just, stop. This is not working.”

“What, what do you mean? This is working great!”

“Jemma, oh my god, your voice never goes that high, except when you are lying.”

She shifts uncomfortably on her seat, or well, she intends to do the movement, but there is not enough room for her to do so.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Fitz sighs and rubs his hands down his face. He should have imagined that the hardest thing on this situation (pun intended) would be getting Jemma to call defeat on something.  

“Jemma, I’m sorry, but I am just not feeling it. It was going sort of okay while we were making out, but for the last three minutes the only thing I have been able to feel is my lungs being crushed.”

Jemma takes a hand to her chest, feigning outrage, but Fitz has seen the gesture enough times to know there is no real heat behind it this time.

“Are you saying that I’m bad at this, non-conventional, unbidden sex business?”

Fitz bites back the comment about how something that has been anticipated for weeks and pre-approved by both parties involved can not be called spontaneous by any means, and instead he tries to derail the conversation to the central point of discussion.      

“No, Jemma, I’m not saying that it’s _your_ fault, I’m just saying that this looks so much easier in the movies than it is in real life.”

She grumbles something back, but her knee crashing against his hip takes quite a lot of momentum from her complaints.

“Oh, Fitz, teenagers do it, I’m sure two geniuses can-”

“Exactly, teenagers do it. We are not teenagers anymore, Jemma.” He is not trying to be a spoilsport, he is just trying to be honest with her; if this were something actually important to her, he would try his damnest best to make the best out of it. But he senses that she is just doing this because they haven’t done it, and somehow to her it feels like a touchstone on a relationship. Jemma struggles sometimes with sorting out between what people say a relationship should be, and how their relationship actually works. Fitz is more than okay with setting their own, personal path together, but that also means sometimes talking Jemma out of things she intends to do like she is following a lab procedure. “And I’m not even certain it would be, um, pleasurable if we were teenagers, either.”  

“Fine.”

She is pouting at him, and he would like to pull her into his arms, but again, who designed a car this small? Instead, he leans closer to her, until his lips just barely brush her right earlobe.

“Believe me, Jemma, for everything I want to do _to_ you and _with_ you, a place this small won’t do.”

He relishes on the full-body shiver that earns him, and he can barely control his smile when she almost kicks open the door of the car.

“What are we waiting for, then?”

Suck it up, cinematographic stereotypes, who needs you to keep an active sexual appetite when one has Jemma Simmons.


	8. Mondler-inspired (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma is obsessed with proving that her and Fitz are a "hotter" couple than Daisy and Lincoln, and Fitz confronts her about why. [Inspired on a Mondler scene in Friends s05e17]

He knows he is really, really going to regret this later. But still, he breaks the kiss, grabs her arm and drags her out of the lab and into the empty training room.

“In the lab? Really, Jemma?” He deadpans once they are far enough for any possible eavesdropper to hear, and at least she has the good sense to look ashamed while she takes a step back. Both their breathings are ragged because of the kiss and the storming out, and he needs to be a lot more calmer in order to have this conversation. “In your tidy, clean, _pristine workspace,_ where anyone could pass by the corridor and see us?”

She rolls her eyes and Fitz lets out a small exhale of relief, because he doesn’t want her to feel bad about this, but also, um, she really needed to be stopped; how far she was willing to push their boundaries to keep a foolish sort of competition with Daisy and Lincoln was getting kind of ridiculous. He takes a step forward until they are facing each other, and rubs his hands down her forearms comfortingly.

“I’m sorry, but this competition thing is out of control and it needs to stop.”

She huffs and doesn’t look him in the eyes, but for some reason she too looks relieved.

“Fine.”

Fitz sighs, lightened himself, and pecks her on the lips to help ease the blow. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy the sex-mania that has possessed Jemma for the last few days, because he did; but that level of enthusiasm could only be upholded for so long, and Fitz himself doesn’t have the energy for doing it long-term. Or the stamina, or the interest, for that matter.

Though not angry or even disappointed, Jemma does look a little crestfallen, and Fitz kisses her cheeks over and over until she giggles and finally melts into his arms. He holds her, relishing on the feeling of having her so close, and waits till she hums in contentment against his chest to push the issue further.

“What is this all _really_ about, anyway? Just because Daisy and Lincoln are jumping each other’s bones all over the base, which, by the way, _gross,_ doesn’t mean we have to do the same.”

Jemma is silent for so long that Fitz is almost on the verge of freaking out when she finally speaks.

“It’s just that they are in that ‘can’t keep their hands off each other’ phase, and it makes me wonder-, I mean, um, aren’t you afraid, sometimes? About, um, about you and me?”

His hold on her tightens a little but that is the only concession he allows to his anxiety, trying to keep his voice as calm and collected as possible. He doesn’t actually have reasons to panic. Not yet.  

“What is there to be afraid about?”

He searches her eyes, but she nestles more her head against his chest, effectively hiding her face, and Fitz lets her be.

“I mean, aren’t you afraid, um, sometimes, I mean, not that this is happening now, but, um-” She cuts herself short, noticing that she is rambling, inhales and begins again. “Aren’t you afraid that once the passion cools off, we are going to be the same best friends that we were before with the only difference that we will be sharing a bed and a bank account?”

He is about to say that if that were the case, wearing out their sexual relationship in a short time wouldn’t be the answer, but he keeps it to himself. She is worried about them, and of course he doesn’t enjoy witnessing her suffering, but it’s endearing that she though that the solution to an imminent disinterest in sex could be, well, having more sex than ever.

But she is worried, and he can not promise her that what frightens her won’t ever happen: he can only try to help her see things the same way he sees them. He pushes gently on her shoulders: he wants to look her in the eyes while he tells her this.

“Jemma.” He waits until her name makes her raise her eyes, and then smiles at her, trying to convey as much as he can all the adoration he feels for her. “Do you want to know why I'm not afraid about that happening?”

She is biting the inside of her cheek anxiously, but she still nods.

“Because what you just described sounds pretty great to me.” She is about to roll her eyes, he can almost feel it, so he squeezes her shoulders to stop it. “No, I’m not just _saying_ that. I actually feel it, Jemma. I mean, to me, it’s great knowing that we are _over_ that phase, that we don't  _need_ to be over each other all the time, and we still… choose each other, you know?” She makes the smallest of sounds, and he smiles sweetly at her, even though Jemma is not looking directly at him. “We were partners, and we kept on choosing each other. We were friends, and we kept on choosing each other. We were on that so-called honey-moon stage, and we kept on choosing each other. And now we are here, and I’m pretty confident that we will keep on choosing each other. Isn’t that kind of amazing?”

There is moisture on her eyes that she is trying to hide, but Fitz doesn’t mention it, just hugs her by the waist and waits until she is ready to reply.

“Yeah, it kind of is.”

He places both his hands on her cheeks and pecks her on the lips softly.  

“And if worse comes to worse, we can still get a king sized bed out of this and to share the rest of our lives with our best friend. I don’t know about you, but I could had been dealt a hell of a lot worse hand than this one.”

She is smiling at him, that smile that always makes him breathless, and only then Fitz leans down slightly to whisper in her ear.

“And, anyway, if the last few days are any indication I would dare say that this hasn’t cooled off _at all.”_


	9. FS Weeek Day 1: Tender (G)

Written for Day 1 of [Fitzsimmons Week](http://thefitzsimmonsnetwork.tumblr.com/post/167354978660/hello-fitzsimmons-shippers-this-long-hiatus-is). Inspired by [this post](https://ernmark.tumblr.com/post/163022113891/dear-god-sleepy-intimacy-makes-me-so-very-happy). 

* * *

Sometimes she still wonders what is the difference between what they had been doing for almost half of their lives and what they are doing now.

Like, sure, now there is sex and there are kisses. But what is the difference between what they are doing and being friends with benefits, that would account for the sex and the physical intimacy, for example? Sometimes she still can’t wrap her head around it.

They spent too much time together to be healthy, and they knew each other better than anybody else, before. They shared ideas and dreams and space and affection, before. He was her person, and she was his, before.

She loved him, and he loved her back, before.

So what changed? Has something actually changed between them or they just caved in to years of intimacy and some very biological, very understandable attraction?

What is, in short, the defining trait of being in love?

It’s only during moments like this one that she _knows._

(Or maybe she actually doesn’t. But she understands what it means to them. To her.

Who cares about what matters to anyone else?)

“Hey, you are falling asleep on me, Fitz. Why don’t you go to bed?”

“Don’t wanna sleep.” His nose nuzzling lightly against the inside of her thigh discredits his affirmation, though. “Wanna be with you.”

Jemma cards her fingers through his hair, once, twice. She likes the texture of the curls on her pads, she likes the way he pushes his head against her hand as if he were a cat.

“I can continue reading on the bed. Does that sound good?”

“Mmkay.”

He gets up slowly, and they walk towards their bedroom side by side. He is leaning a little against her, not so much that his weight becomes a problem but enough that Jemma can feel the warmth of his body seeping through her clothes. He is always so open and unguarded when he is on the verge of sleep; he usually lets his walls down around her, but there are some that are so old and so settled that them being up is almost who he _is._ But sometimes he feels safe enough to just let himself drift apart, and she understands it, then.

It’s not that this is the moment when she loves him the most; no, nothing of the like. She is awed by his mind, and she feels blessed by his heart, and she likes him strong and loyal, brave and resourceful. But like this, when he raises his arms and lets her put him on his pajamas, she feels the tenderness for him as strong as a physical sensation.

She would do anything to protect this man.

But it’s not that feeling that makes the difference. What makes the difference is that _he_ lets her see him like this. It’s that this moment of closeness means to her as much as all their years of partnership and the inside jokes and the heated kisses and.

She is not sure she understands the difference, analytically, empirically, with a clear mind and proof and statistics. But she is not sure that she needs to, either. Because he is falling asleep with his feet tangled on her shins, and his hands on her hips, and she _feels_ it: _I love you, I love you, I love you._

In that moment, it’s not only something that is, it’s that something that _she_ is, the way she loves him indistinguishable from her bloodstream and her very own synapsis.

It _is;_ does it matter what it means?


	10. FS Week Day 4: Heartbeat (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After saving Fitz's life in "Aboslution", Jemma is glad to still be lucky enough to listen to Fitz's heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 4: Heartbeat of Fitzsimmons Appreciation Week

There is never time.

Jemma can actually  _feel_ the new problems that are about to be unraveled, adhering themselves to her skin, piling up on top of old unsolved problems, and discarded problems that were allegedly closed but _I guess not._ All of them make her heavier, they slow her down, but they also make her skin thicker, harder to break.

There are always problems; there is never time. But there is also this.

Only five feet away, with only a blinded door keeping them safe (she doesn’t even _know_ what safe means anymore), there is the impending doom of the world shining darkness upon all of them. Five feet away there are the bodies of good agents and- what might even be worse- good agents turned into empty carcasses, and an ancient God thirsty for power.

But here, on this side of the door, and five feet away from despair, there is Fitz’s heartbeat.

There is her ear, the thin cloth of his shirt and, under it, the galloping sound of his heartbeat.

There is no time for this, with the base going into full lockdown mode and the maddening drunkenness of a thousand years of waiting for a return floating around them, so tangible that she can almost touch it. There is no time, but she will make them time with sharp elbows and clenched teeth.

The world might be falling apart, but, for now, Fitz is alive.

_Screw you, cosmos._

His hands are shaking on her hair, and his voice is rough when he asks her _Debrief?_ He looks a little like he looks right after sex, heartbeat out of control and everything, and maybe fate keeps both of them alive so they can still have small deaths together.

“In half a minute.”

There is no time, but he nods, and holds her tight. She breathes him in: he smells like sweat and like fear, but she doesn’t mind; she likes the bodily proof that he is alive and still human enough to be capable of suffering.

His hand beats on hers while they walk towards Coulson’s office, and while sometimes she feels that they are so close that he lives under her skin, now she is grateful that she can feel his heart both inside and outside herself.


	11. First dance as a married couple (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz does not regeret getting married to Jemma, he just wishes for certain things that they couldn't have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr prompt: "I told you I’ve never slow danced before and now you’re showing me how in the middle of your kitchen late at night." (a bit twisted) + "Perfect" by Ed Sheeran + ScottxMoir feelings. 
> 
> Set in between 5x12 and 5x13.

 

**_Baby, I'm dancing in the dark,_ **

**_with you between my arms._ **

* * *

When Jemma sees Fitz rubbing the space between his eyebrows for the third time in less than an hour, she decides it’s time for a tea intervention. The nervous gesture is a tell-tale sign that something is bothering him, and he might need his own time to process alright, but that doesn’t mean she can not remind him that she is there to listen to him whenever he is ready.  

She uses the tea as an excuse and as an opener; it has always been easier for them to discuss things over tea than over anything else. Daisy mocks them about it pretty much constantly,  _ how very British of you, _ but Jemma is just glad that they can share something innocuous that can warm both their bodies and their hearts. 

She places the full cup on the desk uninvited, and waits till he raises his grateful eyes at her before speaking. The Lighthouse is well stocked, but certainly its provisions weren’t selected by someone well versed in brews and tea quality; at another time, Fitz would have complained loudly and at length about it. Right now, he just takes the cup between his hands like a precious gift and lets his eyes flutter closed at the sensation of the steam on his cheeks.

“What is on your mind, husband?” She uses the term because she can not help herself, and because she already knows it is a sure way to keep him tethered to here and to now and to her. It’s on the tip of her tongue to add  _ besides the weight of the world, _ but she refrains. He is well aware of it without her rubbing salt on the wound.

He puts down the cup, but instead of grabbing her hand, like she was expecting, he starts fidgeting with his wedding ring. Jemma is not surprised about this new habit he is developing; ever since they know each other, he has always been prone to small, repetitive movements that soothe him and help him focus; since his injury, his hands started being the absolute focus of those movements. It’s only reasonable that now that he has something on his hand to play with, he resorts to that naturally. 

But Jemma has noticed, even in the short days they have been married, that this particular fidgeting is an almost foolproof way to know that he is thinking about her, about them. That gives her a tad of anxiety, she is not gonna lie, but they didn’t survive time and distance and depth together because she backs off at the first sign of trouble.

“I was thinking, eh, I mean, no, I was thinking, um, about, eh, the rift. That is. I was thinking about the rift.” He frowns his brow almost immediately, probably noticing that his statement wouldn’t be believable to the most gullible person, much less to his life-long partner turned wife.

It’s not only his stuttering that betrays him, even, because he stutters for a whole bunch of different reasons; it’s the stuttering combined with the ring fidgeting and his ashamed expression and their psychic connexion, all mashed together. She tries her best to play it cool, though, because her panicking is almost a guarantee that he will panic back even harder.

“That is not it, though.” She takes a sip of her own tea, and looks at him from over the edge of the cup. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay, but you have been looking at the same blueprint for forty minutes now, and it doesn’t look like your heart is on it.”

He sighs, and his shoulders deflate; Jemma rubs her forearm against his in consolation. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again and finally blurts something that makes both of them cringe.

“Don’t you regret our wedding?” Jemma doesn’t even have time to react to that devastating question that he hastens to take her hands in his, spilling a little of tea from both their cups in the process. It hurts, of course it hurts, but she stays quiet and tries to keep her face neutral; this is obviously bothering him, and she’d rather hear him out before lashing out. “Not, not like that, oh my god, not that I regret  _ being  _ married to you, Jemma, being married to you is the most wonderful thing I could imagine, but, um, I’m talking about the, the way it happened, if you know what I mean?”  

She does, in a way. If things ever settle down- will things ever settle down?-, they could get married again, legally. But no matter how many or how lavish or how complete ceremonies they hold after, the way they got married forever will be in a meadow born from a fear dimension, with cuts on his face and pins poking her waist, with second-hand rings and Zima for the toast. She doesn’t regret it, not a bit, but she can understand why he has a craving for different circumstances.

She exhales till her lungs are completely empty, and squeezes his hands in hers in the most reassuring way she can muster.

“Maybe I don’t share the exact same feeling, but I think I can understand it, Fitz, and I’m not taking it personally.”

“You shouldn’t!” He makes a grimace at the tone of his own voice, and when he speaks again it is still rushed but less high-pitched. “It’s just… I can’t stop thinking about all the things I want to share with you.”

Despite the tension, her heart melts at the way he says that. She lets go of his hands and strokes his cheek, while Fitz leans into her touch. 

“We will have a lifetime for that.”

“We will.” He makes a pause, and she can see that he is pondering over how wise would it be to press his point. She raises an eyebrow to encourage him. “But there are certain things that can not be changed, and it will forever be true that we were so swamped with work that we didn’t even had time for our first dance as a married couple.”  

Of all the things she could have guessed that bothered him- his mother’s absence, first and foremost-, this one was nowhere on her list, and her bafflement is authentic when she replies, “I didn’t think you cared about that kind of thing.”

Fitz shrugs, and starts playing with his ring again.

“Well, I agree that symbols and institutions are important. And that also means that I like when things are done properly.” 

“And proper for you includes a first dance.” It cames deadpan, not because she doesn’t care about his opinion, but because she can’t still wrap her head around this. 

Luckily, instead of retreating or looking ashamed, he blushes and rubs the side of his neck.

“I told you I was the romantic one.”

The first time he said that to her, it made her competitive instincts kick in; it was not that long ago, but sometimes it feels like it has been a lifetime. She stands differently now, both in regards to herself and to their relationship, and this time when he says it, it makes warmth spread through her chest; instead of competitiveness, her love for him and gratitude for what they have standing forefront. He is not wrong, not really, and she is a tiny bit cynic, especially in regards to institutionalized displays of affection and commitment, but, even though it’s not rational, she can not help thinking _ This is my husband, and I love him just like this. _

Of course, voicing those thoughts would look like she is trying to fight him on the fact, and that is not her intention at all, so instead she says, “Well, I’m glad we didn’t have a first dance, because I have no idea how to slow dance.”

Fitz raises his head immediately at her statement, both eyebrows raised in surprise, and Jemma feels herself blushing under his gaze.

“What do you mean? Jemma, you forced me to take the dance elective at the Academy!”

“Oh, that.” She accompanies her reply with a dismissive hand gesture. “Of course I know the theory and the basics that can be useful for a mission. But slow dancing just for the sake of it? Never did it.” Fitz is looking at her with his mouth hanging slightly open, and it makes her feel self-conscious. “I mean, not that I have had many opportunities or time for doing it with my academic life, and, honestly, I wonder when  _ you  _ became so partial to  _ dancing. _ And for the record, I didn’t force you: it was a mutual agreement.”

Instead of letting himself be swept by Jemma’s bickering, or even replying, Fitz places a hand on her hip and draws her close until their chests are flushed together. Jemma lets out a small yelp at the sudden movement, and looks in bewilderment while Fitz laces his left hand with her right one and tightens up his hold on her waist.

“Here. Let me show you.” 

His voice is soft and low, and it makes a shiver run down Jemma’s spine. It seems a little silly, what with the level of intimacy that they are used to share and being married nonetheless, but the closeness and the gentle steering of his movements takes her out of this moment in space and time, out of being in an illicit underground base grasping for balance over the end of the world, and into a space and time that is only theirs.   

It’s nothing out of the ordinary, not really; their tangled hands, Fitz’s wide palm on her lower back, the nook between his neck and his shoulder that has been custom-made for her cheek, the warmth of his body and the clean smell of his shirt and the inherent scent of his skin. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, the way they balance clumsily, barely moving their feet, and Fitz hums under his breath, setting a rhythm. 

There are a lot of questions on the tip of her tongue- what else do you wish had been different, do you think our parents will ever forgive us because we got married without them, why on Earth are you so invested in dancing, what are you even singing-, but she bites all of them down. The questions can wait.

Right now, she is gotta enjoy her first dance with her husband.       


	12. "May I have this dance?" (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma has been watching Fitz ever since he transferred schools. Now that it is prom, she might have the last chance to actually talk to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr prompt by anon.

If she gotta be honest, she has been watching him ever since he switched schools, the first day of this year, their last one. 

Not in a creepy way; more in an ‘I know we are kindred souls and we could have great adventures together and be connected like I haven’t been with anyone ever before, but I am awkward and you are shy and I just don’t know how to approach you’.

(Well, also a little in a kind of creepy way, because he is cute and she is fifteen, but not  _ blind.) _

They have shared all their advanced classes, after all, and though she is Head of the Chem Club and he is on the Robotics one, they also have shared after time and extracurriculars and plannings, and whatnot. They are both graduating now at fifteen, too, which means there is another tie binding them, whenever they want to admit it or not.

Jemma has tried to get closer to him, to spark his interest, to find a conversation topic besides their Algebra homework, or the scores of diverse school matches that she knows affect none of them. But every time she has tried to make the conversation longer than five perfunctory sentences, he has scurried away. She knows that she is intense alright, but such level of distance can only mean that he doesn’t like the idea of her at all, which is unfair because he hasn’t even given himself the opportunity of knowing her-

“It’s not about you, Simmons,” Daisy told her while stretching her arms laying on the grass, one of the many times Jemma had managed to drive herself into a frenzy. “Or, well, it is, but not because he doesn’t want to know you. It’s because he is too shy to try, and you  _ are  _ intimidating.”

“I am not!” She shrieked in protest, but really, she knew Daisy was right.

“Are too.” Daisy patted Jemma’s knee soothingly. “It’s not a bad thing, babe. It’s quite good, in fact. But it’s hard for a sweet, pasty boy like him to approach a genius girl like you.”

“He is quite intelligent too,” Jemma mumbled, thrown a little off balance.

“He is. But clearly, he hasn’t made peace with it yet the way you have.” Daisy stands up and stretches a hand to help Jemma up too. “Don’t obsess over it. If it has to happen, it will happen.”

Jemma was about to make a comment about how incredibly unscientific the idea of fate was, but Trip caught up with them and twirled Daisy around and away in his blissful distinctive way. Now, she is glad she didn’t get to make that comment because Daisy wasn’t talking about fate: she was talking about this.

It’s one hour into prom, and by the time she spots Fitz, Jemma has already been the focus of some very much unwanted attention; she has fled from the ones that are already eighteen-years-olds poking their noses where they are uncalled for, and she has gently declined the ones that were appropriate but misguided. Fitz is hanging out around a corner completely alone, in a suit jacket that is way too big for his slender frame, and looking like he would exchange all the future wealth of his life to just nope out of this place at this exact minute.

Jemma looks at him keenly, wondering why he is here when he is so clearly uncomfortable if it was his mum's persuasion or Hunter’s cunning abilities, or maybe both. She smiles while imagining all the atrocities he must be directing right now in his mind towards Hunter, who obviously ditched in favour of fooling around with Bobbi somewhere (Jemma cannot exactly blame him). And then she realizes that she doesn’t have to imagine any of it.

It  _ is  _ prom after all, and it might as well be her last chance to properly talk to him. It’s possible that he will reject her once again, but don’t let anyone say that Jemma Simmons ever stop trying for fear of failing.

She gets to him in a couple of long strides, and because he has his eyes fixed on the floor, he startles at the sound of her voice.

“May I have this dance?”

He raises his head and looks at her like she just has grown a second head. Jemma tries her best to keep her outstretched hand steady, even under the intensity of his gaze. After what feels like some never-ending, excruciating seconds, Fitz shakes his head and frowns.

“Why?”

That makes her resolve stumble, because she wasn’t ready for that question.

“Why not?” It’s the only true answer she can find within herself. “It’s a dance, and I want to dance.” She inhales deeply, trying to gather up some courage to use the ace up her sleeve that Daisy has provided.  _ You got this, Jemma.  _ “I heard that we are both going to MIT in the fall, and we younger birds gotta stick together, don’t you think? This seems like a great opportunity to get to know each other better.”

Fitz bites his lower lip, and Jemma’s arm is starting to feel numb, but she doesn’t lower it, because she is nothing if not tenacious. Finally, he takes a step forward, but without touching her hand.

“Are you sure you want to be seen dancing with me?”

Once again, a question Jemma was not prepared to have to face, but this time at least is one that is easy to answer.

“Absolutely positive.” She bites back a comment about how he is the most interesting person there. She doesn’t think they are there yet. 

He places a too gentle hand on her waist, and Jemma almost tells him that she is not going to break before she realizes that he is afraid  _ he  _ is going to break. There is a timid half-smile on his face, and Jemma beams at him to encourage it further.

“Then I would love to dance with you, Simmons.”


End file.
